


Strike Me Down

by tangofox



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, The King (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Historical Accuracy, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-07 08:42:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21455218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangofox/pseuds/tangofox
Summary: The year is 1412, and Prince Helios of England is a well known disappointment to the crown. Spending his days drinking and whoring in Eastcheap with his loyal friend Oliver, he is happy to take his dismissal from the court as an order with a silver lining, and a sign to enjoy his youth as best he can.Until everything changes, and Elio is faced with the fact that the crown and all its trappings are much closer than he cares to admit.———————An AU mash up of Call Me By Your Name & The King
Relationships: Marzia/Elio Perlman, Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	1. The Beginning of The End

“Your Father is sick.”

Four simple words, that Elio knew would change his life forever. 

There was nothing but silence in the room as the messenger waited for an answer, the Prince giving him not even a glance, his eyes still closed as he lay sprawled out upon the straw mattress, his lithe body concealed by sheets pulled up to the nape of his neck. He lay upon his stomach, cheek pressed against the scratchy pillow, his long hair obscuring most of his features. If he were anywhere else, it would certainly not be obvious that this was Prince Helios sprawled out in such a place of ill repute. 

The haze of the morning sun had yet to hit the room, instead only a faint strip of light illuminated one of the princes bare calves, leaving the rest of him untouched, painting him very much like a creature still of the night. If the messenger thought the prince looked like a state, the smell of the rooms and the man himself were worse. His stained clothes were tossed at the foot of the bed, the smell of old vomit and cheap alcohol permeating through the room, intermingling with the unmistakable scent of the unwashed prince. 

If the country saw a dire figurehead in his Father, he certainly didn’t instill confidence in anyone. But that was fine, it was not his intention to be the future of this company. He would rather lay here in his own waste and expire for dysentry. He would rather catch something vile from one of the nameless women who fell into his bed, and choke on his own wretchedness. Better to be known as the foolish prince who took nothing seriously, than the son of his Father. Better to waste away his life in this cesspool than at his Fathers heels. He didn’t care what the world thought of him. What the country saw when they looked for the eldest prince. The throne would not be his, not by choice nor by force. He would not be given it and he would not seek it. 

The messenger says more to him, but Elio is in no state to listen even if he wanted to, drifting in and out of consciousness, the haze of his mind threatening to turn into pounding pain. He did not care. He would not give the man an answer to send back to the castle. It mattered not to him. 

————————————————

“Get up Elio.”

The voice is firm enough to wake him, and familiar enough for him to not care to pay attention to it. Until he has no choice. The icy water hits his body like a blade, and the prince yelps in pain and shock as he propels himself out of bed, bare feet dancing on the floor as the frigid temperature snaps him to his senses. Oliver is standing there at the foot of the bed unphased, an empty bucket in his hand and a solemn expression upon his fine features. 

“I should have your head for your insolence!” Elio sputters at the man, trembling as he advances upon the roaring flames in the fireplace, desperately trying to soothe the sting of his bare skin, his brain still attempting to process the unspeakable assault. 

Oliver simply stares at him, unphased and unimpressed by the shivering waif of a man in front of him. 

“You ride home within the hour.”

Elio scoffs at him, shaking his head in disbelief. His hair is plastered to his forehead, though the dishevellment is no new sight. His shoulder length hair was often tangled and unkempt, and according to his friend, smelled as bad as it looked. There was a small part of Elio that enjoyed that. Knowing he looked how he so often felt. 

“And who are you to suddenly give orders to me?” Elio asks, incredulous, supporting himself with one hand set upon the stone mantlepiece. The warmth soaked into his fingertips faster that the heat that came off of the open flames, causing the young prince to move closer still, attempting to send that tingling heat to the rest of his body. “You forget your place, and you’ll find a new home with your neck upon the block. Who are you? You do not command me Oliver. Get out.”

To his shock and horror, the man actually laughs. “Cut off my head later,” he replies, without an ounce of fear in his voice. “Go and see your Father. We both know you’ll regret it until the end of your days if you don’t. Don’t carry that upon your shoulders. You don’t have to make peace with him, but you must see him. You know it’s the truth Elio.”

To his infinite chagrin, he knew Oliver was right. No more tempered quips come from him as the former warrior tosses a washcloth in his direction, Elio catching it in the hand that isn’t seeking heat from the mantle still. 

“I took the liberty of preparing you a bath. You might not care about what you look like, but save your poor horse the assault of your stench would you, your highness?”

Oliver is smiling then, far too pleased with himself, and despite himself, Elio can’t help but smile back. Oliver was not an old friend by any means, but these days he was the only one who Elio would even care to listen to. The man would drink him under the table at a seconds notice, and wouldn’t complain about carrying the royal to the bed when he inevitably could no longer crawl out from under it. A true friend, and truly, the only one in the entire country who had Elios ear. If anyone else were to ask him of this, the request would be denied until the sun set. But Elio listened to Oliver. The man had yet to give him truly bad advice. Despite their bickerings, he had never reallt done anything at all to upset Elio. Which these days, was a feat upon itself. 

“Leave me be then, unless you wish to check that I’ve washed in every nook and cranny,” Elio hisses, extracting a hearty laugh from Oliver. 

“No your highness, I trust you are capable of at least that,” the man retorts, shaking his head with another laugh before turning away, leaving the prince alone in his quarters. Alone, and oh so lonely. At some point last night, there had been a pretty girl in the bed. Glancing at the soaked mattress, Elio tried to remember even her name, but his mind failed her. Not that it mattered anyway. Just a dalliance, just something to take his mind off of his life. A way to forget just who he was. 

————————————————

Elio found little peace in watching the squire prepare the horses, the young lad running back and forth with gear, handing them off to the stable master. The man was tall and gaunt, and Elio watched his calloused hands run over the mane of one of the beasts, soothing It’s temper as he hooked it up to the waiting carriage. Elio had suggested that he simply ride a single horse until morning, but the illustrious Oliver had already acquired transport, and had paid with the crowns funds for it. Elio was expected to hand over coin without complaint or fuss, and climb up into the carriage in all its finery. 

Not likely. 

He had bathed before leaving his quarters, but by no means looked anything like the crown prince he was supposed to. His tunic was frayed and stained, and though clean, still had the odour of stale alcohol about it. Elios hair hung limply down the sides of his face, combed but nothing more, half the locks shoved behind his ear out of the way. He looked right at home, with the mud of the streets already coating his knee-length boots, just another peasant milling about on the street. Few would look twice at him unless they already knew who stood there. Those who would deign him worthy of a second glance would see what was simmering underneath the dirty facade. With clear skin and eyes that shone with a sign of health, it was evident he wasn’t surviving on a paupers diet. His tunic, though stained and frayed at the cuff, was made of sturdy and fine material, the kind that would cost half a years wages to some of the denizens of the village. He wore it without care or purpose, after all, it was no trouble to simply obtain a new one. He had considered himself estranged from his Father for a long while now, but the young man was not estranged from the royal purse. He used it so sparingly in comparison to anyone else who had access to the coffers, but he still didn’t subject himself to a life of destitution. Just one of depravity. 

He pats the steed upon his head affectionately before climbing up into the carriage, scraping the soles of his boots on the step as he does so as not to soil the interior too much. Oliver is already there waiting for him, that typical unreadable expression on his face. Despite his instinct, Elio doesn’t flinch when the man reached over to tuck a wayward strand of dark hair behind the princes ear, leaning back as if he hadn’t done a thing at all. 

“We could be at Westminster by nightfall, I don’t see why I couldn’t just ride horseback alone,” Henry protests, already eager to change his friends mind about the journey, about the transport, about everything. 

“Because it is a populated route, and you would be seen travelling by horse. I was under the assumption you would want as few people knowing about this trip as possible, since you’re so against it.”

Elio glowers at him. Not because he’s wrong, but rather, because his friend is very right. It was a considerate move, he realised. This was not about trapping him in a fine cage that the King himself would approve of. This was anonymity for the journey he did not want to take. A cloak to allow him to do what must be done, without so many eyes upon him. It’s more thoughtful than he gave Oliver credit for. 

“I should be sat in my room praying for a miserable death,” Elio bemoans, and when Oliver puts a comforting hand upon his shoulder he doesn’t protest, rather, he lets his shoulders sag and his body lurch forwards, his head hanging low as the carriage begins to lead the Prince away from the filthy streets of Eastcheap. “He shouldn’t have called upon me, like a beggar desperate for a shimmer of gold. I want nothing to do with him Oliver. Let him wreck England beyond recognition, let him turn into a walking corpse with no regard for anything other than his own petty grievances. I’m done. I was done a long time ago. You know that.”

Of course Oliver knew that. He had been the first one to clock the stumbling prince making his way into the tavern on that fortuitous night, when The King had recovered from his bout of sickness and snatched all power out of the young princes hand. 

“Two years. Nearly two years I held this country on the precipice of greatness, at the top of the world. Now look at it. Soon these lands won’t be fit to live in, nevermind govern. Unlucky be the fool who is left with the carcass of Henry IV’s making.”

He glances up then, aware of Oliver’s silence, though it doesn’t surprise him. The man had a tendency to let him rattle on, to listen rather than comment. Sometimes it was what he needed. Someone to listen to him. To understand. 

Elio sighs as he moves to press his nose against the man’s hand, still resting firmly on his shoulder, keeping him steady in his seat. 

“His reign will end soon,” Oliver says quietly, though not unkindly, despite the anger that was clearly evident in the young princes heart. 

Elio simply responds with a snort and a shake of his head. “Let’s find out what he wants from me before we go toasting to his end. If he asks anything, demands anything, I am putting your head on the block for forcing me to come.”

“Will a day go by when you don’t threaten to decapitate me? We both know you’d be a lonely man without me,” Oliver chuckles, patting his shoulder before dropping his arm away. He moves to grab a hold of the princes boots by his ankles, setting them down in his lap, giving the young man more room in the cramped carriage. 

Elio doesn’t quite smile, instead letting his head drop back against the upholstery, stretching his legs in the man’s lap, and allowing his eyes to close. He doesn’t sleep, far too agitated to chase any semblance of rest, but he does relax in the company, allowing the gentle motions of the carriage to ease up the tension in his bones, the tension that he knows will rise the moment he steps out in front of his Father.


	2. Passing Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helios meets with The King, and finds out what was so urgent.

The smell of fresh meat and roasting vegetables was enough to make the young prince’s mouth water, despite his adamance that he certainly wouldn’t show it. He had hoped to arrive a little earlier and perhaps be on his way back to Eastcheap with the rising moon, but they had managed to find themselves in Westminster at the tail end of dinner. Elio was glad he would miss the awkward conversation around the table, but the gnawing in his stomach reminded him that he certainly regretted he would miss the meal. He hadn’t eaten all day, and after a heavy night drinking, his body was certainly worse for wear. 

Still, there was nothing to be done about it now. Sustenance would have to wait. 

Walking through the drafty halls of Westminster, Elio couldn't help but note where they had been called to. Westminster Palace wasn’t where his Father usually resided, not unless there was important business to take care of.

“Why isn’t he at Hampton Court?” Elio asks Oliver, his voice low so as not to carry, not wanting anyone other than his company to hear what he’s talking about. “If he’s so sick, surely he should be at the palace, resting. Or was this all just a ruse?”   
  
Oliver shrugs a little. He had spoken to the messenger after Elio had so brusquely sent him away, but he wasn’t that much wiser than the prince. He just knew that the King was ill, and had requested the presence of Prince Helios. Everything else was anybody's guess. “I suppose you shall find out soon enough,” Oliver offers, though he knows it’s not the reassurance Elio is hoping for. He can see it in the tight lines upon his face, somehow making him look far too old and far too young at the same time. 

Elio had sworn off ever stepping foot in places like this again, too raw with anger and betrayal when his Father had dismissed him from court. Now he was back, and at Oliver’s insistence, because Oliver knew that it was rare that the prince could say no to him. He hoped this wasn’t all for nothing. He truly hoped there could be some sort of reconciliation, that Elio would embrace his father and let the past remain there. He didn’t pretend to understand the intricacies of court, nor the workings of the royal family. He understood the battlefield, he understood gambling and drinking, and he tried to understand Elio to the best of his ability. Everything else was simply not worth his time. 

At the sight of one of the footmen, Oliver falls into a respectable pace behind Elio, watching as the young man raised his chin a little higher in the air, regal even when he thought that part of his life was gone. You could take the prince out of the palace….

“Take me to him.”

The footman sputters, glancing around as if expecting someone to appear from the shadows to save him. Oliver keeps his gaze on the prince, and Elio’s perpetual frown only deepens. 

“Is his foolishness catching, or do your ears simply not work?” Elio asks, voice full of barely contained rage, just for a second, before it’s gone again, the young prince taking a deep breath. There was no need for him to get so angry at a servant who had done him no wrong. He knew that. He was better than that sort of behaviour. “Go and tell the King that Prince Helios has arrived and will see him now.”

More sputtering, more darting eyes, only melting into something of relief when he spotted someone walking towards them, both Elio and Oliver turning to be met with the sight of the Lord Chamberlain shuffling towards them, a bemused expression on the man’s face. 

“His Royal Highness has already retired for the night my prince,” the Lord explains, Elio finding himself growing more and more irate at the second. “Lodgings have been prepared for yourself and your servant, but I’m afraid he will not be able to see you until the morning. He is in need of his rest.”

Elio does not make a move to correct the Lord Chamberlain on the assumption about Oliver, simply nodding his head. There was nothing he could do regarding his Father. He knew that. 

“Very well. Have someone from the kitchen send up some bread and cheeses. I will see him early. If he tries to delay, tell him I will leave. I don’t wish to be in this wretched place any longer than absolutely necessary.”

Elio stalked himself away from the Lord Chamberlain, the footman, and Oliver, without another word. He had been in Westminster enough to know exactly where he was going. Still, he wished the meeting had been at Hampton Court. A small part of him had longed to take a walk in the gardens, to reminisce about the life that once was. He was surprised to find the King in his official residence, one that he rarely frequented. The man preferred to leave anything official to his advisors, only appearing to bang his fists and remind them all that they existed to carry out his bidding as King. Truthfully, Elio never expected him to return here after what had happened two years ago. But it seemed there was still some semblance of propriety in his Father's walking corpse. How quaint, that he could still be surprised by the man he had come to loathe. 

——————

Elio doesn’t ask after Oliver, which is why he is surprised to find the man pushing open the door to his chambers, a tray of food in his hand. Not quite the bread and cheese he had asked for, instead the man holds a platter of what had been served at the feast, including slivers of pheasant that were already making Eilo’s mouth water. 

“They gave me a room in the servants lodgings and asked me if I needed help attending you,” Oliver tells him, looking completely unamused. His expression only darkens when Elio takes the tray off of him, letting out a barking laugh. 

“I think you make a fine manservant, don’t look so glum,” Elio tells him, setting it down upon the floor in front of the fireplace. He had taken cushions from a wooden bench and laid them out on the dusty floor, papers filled with hasty scribbles laid out where he had been sat. The papers are quickly shoved away, Elio not giving Oliver time to read them before they’re secured away in a wooden box, the ink stains on his hands the only indicator he had been writing anything at all. 

Elio pulled the tray closer to him, wasting no time with shoving food into his mouth. He knew that, especially given his status, he was deliberately courting controversy. Eating so late was certainly frowned upon, the church had long declared that late and early meals were signs of gluttony. But Elio hadn’t eaten all day, and was sure that God would make an exception, considering that he was travelling. He was also aware of the salaciousness of not only dining privately, but with Oliver at his side. Which probably explained why the man had made no attempts to secure food for himself. Elio couldn’t help but think a little bitterly, that a late dinner was by far the worst thing he had done with Oliver. 

Taking his knife from his belt, Elio made quick work of cutting up the food in front of him, showing little regard for his own safety as he licked the meat juices from his blade, before using it to gesture at a covered plate. “What’s that?”

Oliver’s expression softens then, turning almost bashful. “Plum tart. Baked for tomorrow’s luncheon, but I know it’s your favourite, so I bribed one of the kitchen maids.”

Elios eyes widen like a small child, lifting off the large lid to reveal the small tart underneath, the aroma of fresh pastry hitting him almost immediately. Eastcheap certainly wasn’t known for its fine cuisine, and while Elio had proudly renounced all aspects of royal life, he did miss the food. The feeling of a full belly being normal instead of a rare occasion. He knew he could eat more even in Eastcheap, but he was often too proud, too sullen, or his own unique mixture of both. 

“You should eat,” Elio declares suddenly, picking up a small piece of carrot, holding it out for Oliver to pluck from his greasy fingers. The following reddening of his cheeks is not from the proximity of the fire, rather the fact that Oliver simply leans down and takes the morsel between his teeth, his tongue flicking over ink stained digits before he sits back up, an expression on his face that after all this time, Elio still does not know how to read. 

“You’re an animal,” the young prince mutters, which gains him a grin, the smile warm enough that the fireglow and roasted meat don’t provide the same satisfaction. 

They finish the meal in a comfortable but exhausted silence, Elio allowing himself to enjoy the rich food and the amicable company, not letting his mind drift off to what was coming in the morning. He didn’t want to see his Father. Being forced to wait to see the King was almost as bad as knowing he would have to see him at all. 

~

Oliver at least has the good sense to wait until they’ve emptied a pitcher of wine before broaching the sorest subject, and the one that was clearly pressing upon his mind. Oliver is sat with the young Princes head in his lap, as close and comfortable as if they knew no other person in the world, though in truth Elio had stumbled himself there after the meal had turned into his favourite activity: drinking. Oliver, as always, had the good sense to catch the Prince, and the even better sense to dutifully finish off his glass for him, lest the fine wine go to waste. 

“Is this the first time you’ve been back here? Since he dismissed you?”

Elio knew the question was coming, but it stings even when it bubbles past Oliver’s lips. He hated to talk about it. The foulest move his Father ever played against him. 

It seems an age before Elio answers, then when he does, his voice sounds far away, and he’s almost far away, and he’s half convinced it doesn’t even belong to him. 

“No. No I came back once more to see what I could do about my Fathers plans,” he admits quietly. “He had already made it clear that his intention was to undo every rule I put in place while he was on his sickbed. It wasn’t even for a good reason Oliver. You must understand that there was no damn reason for him to be so petty, other than his own ego. Two years I governed in his stead. That was two years worth of laws passed, rulings signed, decisions made. Even the smallest decisions, he took back. I remember, I had been gifted a painting, it was of my Mother, and her children. Oliver, it was beautiful. Even the Queen admired it, suggested where to display it. Do you know what he did? Had it burnt. Not because it was a bad painting. Not even because it was a gift to me. But because  _ I  _ had ordered it be displayed, and not him. He’s a frightened old man who is obsessed with being toppled from the throne. He couldn’t see that everything I did was for the good of this country. Was for him. For England. Now I will do nothing, and he will have to live with that, though I scarcely believe the thought gives him sleepless nights.”

“Surely it was not all for naught. You have friends in court, don’t you?” Oliver asks, genuinely curious to what the response to young Helios had been. 

Elio nods firmly, before turning in the man’s lap, facing towards the fire so the heat stings his cheeks. “Many friends. But he is the King, Oliver. I will not play those games, not with him. Not for this. I don’t want a part of any of it anymore.”

“So you plan to simply live out your days as a degenerate?”

Elio lets out a laugh that’s without humour. 

“You know dear Oliver, I may very well do just that. Let them remember me as Helios The Degenerate for the next five hundred years. I shall have no complaints.”

They both resign themselves to silence after that, Elio very glad that Oliver has no more questions to ask him, content to fall asleep by the roaring fire, entirely unaware of when exactly his faithful friend puts him to bed, but revelling in the feeling of the soft pillow against his cheek, and a weight next to him that he can’t quite place in his half-asleep state. 

———————————

“You stink. I can smell you from here.”

There are titters from behind him that cause King Henry to smirk, craning his neck as if to spot who found his comment so amusing so he might bestow a title upon them as a reward. 

Elio stands in front of him, dressed in the same clothes as the day before, though now a little more rumpled, and perhaps deliberately with wine stains now down the front. The expression on his face is unamused, certainly not finding the funny side of the comments about himself, nor rising to the bait and getting upset about it. A reaction was exactly what the man wanted from him, and Elio would not give him the satisfaction of it. 

The court was full and seemingly attended by half of England, something Elio had only been made aware of after he had been summoned. This was not a Father wishing to see his son and make amends. This was something official, something he had been tricked into showing up for. Rage simmered beneath the surface, but even Elio was not foolish enough to call the man out on it. No matter how he felt, his Father was still King, and somewhere deep inside of him, he respected that. Or rather, he knew he had to. 

The fact that his brothers were present filled him with naught but dread. John graces him with a smile when he enters, and Humphrey looks over the moon, but it is Thomas that does not meet his gaze, refusing to even glance in the direction of his elder brother. 

Helios realises what this is about just before his Father opens his mouth. 

“I’ve asked you here today, so I might make my intentions clear in front of the whole court, so there may be no room for confusion,” the King declares, meeting Elio’s state with one of his own. “For years now your behaviour has been nothing but reckless and disgusting exploits, besmirching your own name time and time again. The fact that you come in front of me now stinking like brothel and brewery only cements my decision. Prince Helios of England, you will not be King upon my death. That honour will fall to your loyal brother Thomas, who we can all trust to lead this country further into greatness, to carry what I have began into fruition.”

The deafening silence around him tells him all he needs to know. He is the very last to know this decision. The King had been planning all along to bring him here and disinherit him in front of everyone. 

“I never wanted the crown. I am glad for the burden to be lifted.”

Thomas does look at him then, confusion flashing in his eyes, only to be quickly replaced with a look of fervent determination. Elio knew that look all too well. Thomas, filled with youthful eagerness and arrogance, wanting nothing more than to please their Father. That had been Elio, once. The first time his Father got sick and he made decisions in his stead. He was so desperate to do the right thing, to make his Father proud. It pained him to think of Thomas walking the same path. 

“You kept my seat warm on the council then Thomas?” He asks, addressing his brother alone. “Peace suits you. Or rather inaction. What has Father had you ignore since giving you my chair. I heard even dear Percy grew tired of this charade. Have you written to him? He was a friend to you Thomas, he would benefit from your council.”

Thomas isn’t given the chance to answer, Elio silenced by his father banging his fist angrily upon the arm of the throne, garnering attention back to him. 

“Your Brother will ride to Shrewsbury and meet the traitor with the full force of our army,” the man declared, smugness evident in his voice. 

Was...was he joking? Elio felt his stomach drop as he turned from his Father to Thomas, watching that smugness reflect in his brothers face. He strides forwards then, standing in front of his brother, resisting the urge to grab his shoulders and shake him, instead pressing a hand to his cheek affectionately, then letting it drop. 

“Tom...why would you lead such a foolish battle? Why are you playing into his games?” Elios voice was soft then, not broken but pleading, not hiding the stress and worry that painted his face. “This is his fight, not yours. Percy takes issue with Father and his mistakes, not you. Don’t lead our countrymen into a battle they have no business fighting. Has Edmund’s ransom been paid?”

Silence from his brother. Silence all around him. It meant that when Elio laughed bitterly, the sound echoed throughout the chamber. 

“Don’t you see Tom? He lets his own arrogance and paranoia lead this country. Even his most loyal men turn from him and rebel because he shows them no such loyalty. A year ago Percy would have slit his throat from ear to ear if Father had asked it of him. He would have travelled to Eastcheap and slit  _ my  _ throat if it was demanded of him. He adored Father, even more than you and I. Look where it got him and his family. This rebellion will not be quashed by soaking the soils with blood. Thomas you must-”

“Enough!”

The King's command is followed with a roiling cough that makes even Elio cringe, glancing at his Father, at the man withering upon the throne. 

“It was my duty to inform you of your fall in the line of succession. Your brother will fight by weeks end, and will be King upon my death. There is no more for us to say to one another. You have been informed, and you may return to the cesspit you came to us from. Leave us now Prince Helios. You will ever remain in my prayers.”

A thousand words remain on his tongue, from please to insults, to jabbering rage all the way to despondent sorrow. But Elio gives none. No sound falls from his lips as he turns on his heel and exits the chamber, leaving his family, and his claim to the throne, alone. 

He does not traverse the halls to seek out Oliver, does not return to his rooms to collect his things. Instead the Prince makes his way straight to the stables and helps himself to a horse, riding alone back to Eastcheap, with little care or thought for anything at all. 


End file.
